A Golden Thorn
by OccasionallyCreative
Summary: Forcibly married to Sherlock Holmes, Molly Hooper finds her new husband cold and isolated and disinterested in her, in more ways than one. But as Molly uncovers more about her husband and his past, she finds that part of his past could prove to be the key to her discovery of true happiness.


_**Author's Note: **So, this is a historical fic, set in about the period of the 15th century, more or less. It's based on a prompt sent in to me pretty much months ago by Tumblr user, **numachae. **The prompt in question was this: "Sherlock and Molly have been in a fake marriage for almost two years; the first 10 months was (of course) for Sherlock's case then it has been for Molly's honour. Their marriage has been peaceful but distant. Irene Adler came back to reclaim Sherlock. Heart broken, Mrs. Holmes was to give up her long... unfulfilled love for her husband. Will Sherlock let her?"_

_However, I changed the prompt around a bit, in ways that will become clear as this fic goes on. Well, I say 'goes on' - this fic is actually going to be a two parter. But considering how long it took for me to write this first part, and the fact I have two assignments due over the Christmas/New Year period, don't hope for a quick update on the second part. But hey, I might surprise you all. I guess it all depends really. The 'M' rating is for the next part, in case anyone's wondering. Smut is_ _- ahem - coming, I promise._

_As always, I hope you enjoy reading, and please don't forget: favourites are great, follows are lovely and reviews make me feel all warm and cushy inside._

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><p>"Perhaps, after all, romance did not come into one's life with pomp and blare, like a gay knight riding down; perhaps it crept to one's side like an old friend through quiet ways; perhaps it revealed itself in seeming prose, until some sudden shaft of illumination flung athwart its pages betrayed the rhythm and the music, perhaps … perhaps … love unfolded naturally out of a beautiful friendship<em>,<em> as a golden-hearted rose slipping from its green sheath." ~ _L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Avonlea._

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><p>Her heart felt as if it had slowly turned to stone. Where once it had kept her alive, it was now little more than a dead, rotten weight. Strange silks constricted against it, shortening her breaths. She tempered them as she gazed into her reflection, and she tried to quash the loneliness in her eyes with a little smile.<p>

The skirts of her gown pooled at her feet, and she felt her fingers brush against them absentmindedly, her attention still focused on the mirror in front of her. Behind her stood her maid, a young and dark-haired lady with a soft brogue and a genial, sharp smile. She smiled as she carefully brushed her fingers through the hair of her mistress, arranging the soft brown tendrils into an appearance suitable enough for a bride.

"You look glum, milady," the girl said, a comment to which Molly Hooper smiled.

"No, not at all. I was only… lost in thought." It almost amazed her, how easily the lie tripped off her tongue.

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><p><em>I do not wish to marry him.<em> The sentence ran through her mind, pleading with her to be released, yet she remained silent. He was of a handsome countenance, yes, and he was rich, but he was strange; cold and aloof. She had always heard of the sensation other ladies termed 'courtly love', and she had often hoped she might have experienced it, but now she stood there in the middle of the Great Hall, her hand in her father's and her head bent low as she curtsied, she soon realised that to have such a hope was hollow.

Her father smiled and stepped forward to hold out her hand towards the man she was to marry. He dutifully took her hand without hesitation and pressed a swift kiss to her skin before he let her drop it back to her side. She fought the temptation to scratch or rub at her hand and instead listened as the man spoke, looking to her father.

"She's well enough," he said flatly. "And the dowry you offer is more than acceptable. I suppose you should want the marriage to take place as quickly as possible?"

Her father gave a nod. "But we can wait if you have business you need to attend to, sire."

"No, I am free of any obligations." The man looked back to her, and if she were not focused on her own thoughts, she might have seen the ghost of a smile that appeared at the edges of his mouth. He turned back to her father. "The wedding shall take place a week from Saturday."

Her father spluttered in surprise, and Molly raised her head to see her betrothed quickly make his way from the hall. Her father gave chase, running quickly over to the man.

"But nothing has been arranged – sire!"

"On the contrary," the man called brightly over his shoulder as he reached the doors. He glanced back at her. "Everything has been attended to. The only thing you really need to do, Lord Hooper, is make sure your daughter attends."

Giving one last nod of his head, the man left. Her father remained where he was, frowning in puzzlement.

"Lord Holmes is a strange man indeed." He looked to his daughter and smiled again for her benefit. "But I am sure you shall be happy with him."

"Of course I will Father," she said, but she did not smile. She continued to stare at the doors where once her betrothed had stood. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet. "How could I not?"

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><p>The ceremony went as expected, but her heart was still heavy. It grew heavier still as she felt his hands take hers and slip the ring onto her finger. She smiled genially from the moment of her arrival, blushing as a bride was meant to do and she graciously accepted the congratulations given to her by the guests.<p>

Such behaviour lasted all throughout the wedding feast too. Opulent and richly coloured decorations hung from the ceilings and against the walls, lively music was played by the musicians, people danced, children laughed, food was eaten, men cheered drunkenly and dogs waited patiently for scraps. Her husband however, seemed to show little to no interest in the events of the feast. Instead, he sat at the table, a wine goblet in his hand (though he barely drank from it) as his eyes traced lazily over the gentry that surrounded both him and his new wife. To her, he paid little attention but among such landed gentry as this, such behaviour was regarded as the norm and as such, no-one neither questioned it nor pitied her.

Indeed, the only person her husband seemed to pay attention to was Lord Watson, a well-born and well-bred man who had gained social prominence and wealth in his adventures as a noble soldier and knight of the realm. Unlike any other guest who had attempted to speak to her husband, he was not brushed aside with a comment or a civil but cold smile, but actually received his full attention. Through the noise and clamour of the feast, she heard snatches of conversation exchanged between the two men.

"You might have told me—" The jovial screech of an instrument covered the remaining parts of Lord Watson's sentence. The very fringes of it were what she picked up. "This is ludicrous—"

"Don't be ridiculous, she's perfectly amiable—"

"You realise this—" Lord Watson was cut off again, but on this occasion, the action was voluntary. Catching her gaze, he swallowed back a gulp, straightened up, nodded once to her and moved away, weaving through the crowd. Molly looked to her husband briefly before she immediately turned her head. There had been a rushed, clipped, angry tone to both voices that had told her this was not a matter to be shared between a husband and his wife. (That did not stop her however, from wondering what matter it was.) Taking a breath, she lifted her goblet to her lips and took a gulp of the sweet-tasting wine that filled it.

"They call that nectar." The voice of her husband took her by surprise, and as she looked to him, she found a wide smile on his lips. He raised an eyebrow. "But owing to your reaction, I'd say you don't much enjoy it."

She brushed her fingers against the side of her goblet and fought back a blush. "It is too sweet for my taste, my lord."

"Too sweet?" He laughed without mirth. "Others might say it was sweet enough."

"I still say it is too sweet," she murmured, and somehow, through the raucous noise of the feast, he heard her. For a moment, she had the greatest fear she had angered him somehow, but when he gave a small shrug, that fear temporarily subsided.

"I maintain it is sweet enough. Sweet enough to be disgusting," he said. An almost malicious grin flicked onto his mouth but before she could reply, he had leaned towards her. His hand brushed against her hair as he whispered into her ear.

"You can cease pretending now."

She froze, and the genial smile she had borne for much of the day and the evening died away. He had known? This whole time, he had seen through her pretence? The fear she thought had subsided whirled through her again. She heard him stand and heard him speak to the guests, but she did not hear the words spoken. She felt him grip at her hand and pull her onto her feet. More cheers sounded, and he led her quickly from the dining hall and down a stone corridor. The cheers echoed.

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><p>He made no more mention of her pretence, nor did he seem to be angered. In fact, he did not speak a word to her but rather continued to steer her through the corridor. The orange glow of candlelight flickered across his features, and for the first time, she saw just how handsome his features really were. Out of both an internal rebellion and fear of her new husband, she had never quite let herself fully look at him; true, she had allowed herself brief moments and small glances, but she had never stared at him in the way that she did now.<p>

He was not at all like the paintings which she had so often looked at. They had depicted their heroes as strong and romantic, astride a horse and clad in armour as they charged into battle. He was lithe in build, with sharply cut features. His eyes however, as he turned to look at her, she saw now that the colour seemed to shift with the light. In this dark corridor, they were almost indigo, but in the light of the day, she remembered them to be the clearest shade of azure.

And as he let her hand go and pushed open a large wooden door, she reflected that if they weren't husband and wife, she might have felt she could trust him.

The bedchamber he escorted her into was much as she expected it to be. Wedding decorations filled the walls and the corners of the frankly expansive room, but unlike the corridor, the only light in the room was the moonlight, filtered into colour by the glass window opposite her. A fire burned dimly in the grate, the last few embers just about clinging to life. She homed in on the centre of the room, where stood the bed, silken bed sheets and furs spread across it, plain and untouched.

She felt herself tug a little at her sleeves. Her insides were turning, twisting themselves into knots and bunches. Pressing a hand lightly to her stomach, her eyelids fluttered shut. Nerves; that was all it was. Only nerves.

The sound of a door creaking open caused her to open her eyes once more. She turned her head, and a smile grew over her lips. Her maid curtsied, first to her and second to her husband.

"I had her brought over from your father's household – thought her presence might made you a little more comfortable here," he explained quickly, his clipped tone erasing whatever scrap of sentiment might have been behind his words.

"Thank you sire," Molly said softly. Her maid stepped forward and took her gently by the arm.

"Come milady. You're to be washed and dressed."

The beginnings of a question stuttered from her lips, but she soon drew it back. She was a married woman. There was little reason why she should inquire what her duties now included. So she gave a small nod and allowed herself to be led from the main bedchamber.

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><p>Her maid was far too efficient in cleaning her, and as she felt her scrub diligently at her back, Molly's unease continued to grow. The knots continued to twist. More maids, strangers to her, entered. They bowed demurely to her and the chief of them, one Mrs Hudson—as she so introduced herself—warmly invited her to step out of the bath. With shaking limbs, she did so and she stayed perfectly still as the maids went about their work, perfuming and dressing her. The nightgown they had chosen for her was extravagant in its make, with pearls stitched into the silken collar, tied together at the tops of her breasts by a thin stretch of rich green ribbon. The rest of the garment was composed of white cotton, and its length fell down to her ankles. She would've admired its beauty a lot more closely if she had not been so preoccupied by her thoughts.<p>

With more kind words, Mrs Hudson guided her into another extravagantly made garment, this time a robe also of rich green, black velvet patterned intricately into the heavy silk fabric and the collar lined with fur. With deft fingers, Mrs Hudson tied the rope of the gown around her waist and lifted her hands up to briefly touch and arrange at Molly's hair, twisting it around until it rested on her shoulder.

"You're a very beautiful girl," she said, stepping back. "Lord Holmes will be pleased, I'm sure."

"I'm sure," she echoed, a small but meaningless smile on her lips. Mrs Hudson's smile grew and she took her gently by the hand to lead her back into the bedchamber where her husband waited, the maids following on behind.

When they entered, they found him sat on the edge of the bed, lost in thought, his fingers tucked under his chin. He was no longer dressed in his wedding clothes, but had instead switched to a shirt and set of trousers. On seeing their arrival, he dismissed the servants away with little to no instruction but instead a slight wave of his hand. Mrs Hudson nodded once and ushered the maids from the room, and Molly briefly watched them leave until her husband's voice brought her attention back to him.

"Your father tells me you prefer the name of Molly."

She nodded. "Yes sire. It – distances me."

"Distances you from what?"

"My mother. Lady Margaret. She died giving birth to me – I was named after her. I am sure she was a beautiful woman, but all the stories, all her good deeds – I do not wish to associate myself with her – legacy," she finished, fiddling at the edges of her sleeves with her fingers. Her husband said nothing to her ramblings, but only stood and moved slowly towards her. Her gaze dropped to the floor, and she listened as he continued to take regular and methodical steps over to where she stood. When all she saw were the tips of his boots, she finally looked up. His look was not one of greed, nor was it one of desire. It was actually one of study. It was the same look he had worn on the day of their far too rapid betrothal.

"I shall sleep on the left side," he said quickly, a short intake of breath preceding his speech. "The only times you will disturb me are if you believe you're about to die, or find yourself in any other similar emergency. Do you understand me?"

"Yes sire," she whispered, though she could not understand two things. One: she simply could not understand his behaviour. What had the ritual been for, if he were to just ignore her? Did she repulse him that much? And two: why, if he had provided her with a temporary release from the duty she so feared, did she still feel so nervous?

He did not appear to take notice of her nerves; instead, he stepped away from her and sat on the bed in order to remove his shirt. Like his features, his body was lean and far from the more broad or muscular forms of his guards. He inclined his head towards her. A smile of understanding slowly appeared on his lips.

"Aha – I see it now. You're confused. Don't be." He stood to fold his shirt, speaking as he did so. "Despite my brother's insistence on the fact, I don't believe that consummation is all that is relevant to marriage."

"Relevant?"

He tugged a long nightshirt over his shoulders as he spoke. "You are my wife, I am your husband and we were married in the eyes of God. That's enough. The ancient tradition of consummation is a tired one, and not one I feel we need to indulge in."

"Oh." That was the only sound that escaped her lips and although he had given no cause for nerves—in fact, he had practically discouraged them—she still approached the bed with caution, her eyes averted from his as she climbed into the bed and lay her head against the pillow. His body was cold against her, unmoving and unwelcoming. Curling her knees tightly against her chest, she fell, slowly, into a fitful, and dreamless, sleep.

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><p>The next morning, she rose late and alone. The cold of the winter touched at her as she clambered out of bed and she, a shiver heading rapidly down her spine, clutched at her dressing gown, throwing it onto her shoulders to wrap it tightly around her body. A maid, fresh-faced in her smile, stepped inside and immediately set to work, stripping the bed of its sheets and making no mention of the lack of blood. The pristine, blank sheets bit at her, far more harshly than any winter wind. They spoke of her shame; of her failure. With a bowed head, she let the maid depart and only when the girl was gone did she allow herself to sit down and press her hands into her hair.<p>

She did not know how long she spent, sat in that cold, hard chair, lost in the haze of her thoughts but it was voices, distant, heated in tone but tempered in volume, which brought her back, sharply, into reality. One voice, the more defensive of the two, was her husband's. The other she knew only in passing. Standing, she held her gown around her waist and moved towards the door, stepping down the stone steps and towards the voices. She stepped out into the dining hall and found, stood by the roaring fireplace, her husband and another man, tall yet portly. The man's gaze fell on her, and Molly gently curtsied, bowing her head. She had only met Mycroft Holmes for a short moment before, during the festivities of her wedding. There, he had worn an expression of vague concern; an expression that was not too dissimilar to the one he wore on her entrance to the dining hall. As with the wedding, his gaze did not linger on her but instead focused back onto his brother.

"I find it difficult to believe you, brother." Her husband only scoffed at the words of his brother. Mycroft tilted his head. "Where is your proof?"

"I have it," came her husband's icy reply. What had caused this rift between the two brothers was unclear, but it was rooted deep within their words and their mannerisms. So tight, so controlled—so _isolated_ from one another. Molly's head turned as a door opened and a maid stepped through, a bundle of sheets in her arms. On a silent command from her master, she laid them out on the long table. Crimson against the white, sticky with wetness, the droplets of blood were easy to see. Mycroft did not immediately look to his brother, but to her.

"So you performed your duty, Lady Holmes?"

Lady Holmes. An uncomfortable fit and one she was destined to wear for a lifetime. She smiled, and gave one, single nod. Seemingly satisfied, though choosing to say nothing—as seemed to be his way—Mycroft Holmes departed from the hall. Only when his absence was assured did her husband begin to move, striding towards the fireplace and sitting as the maid, her eyes dutifully lowered, gathered up the bloodied sheets and left. Molly blinked and briefly rubbed at her eyes. She could still see it; the crimson, so at war with the white of the bed sheets. Somehow, that stung far more than any blank, pristine sheets could.

"I take it by your silence that you feel somewhat guilty about lying." Her husband glanced at her. His brow furrowed. A tiny, imperceptible smile lightened his features. "No… you're feeling guilty, but not for the lying itself."

He was right. She fidgeted again with the sleeves of her gown, pulling them down over her fingers. It was not the act of lying that had caused her to be so nervous indeed, but rather, what she had felt after the act. She had expected, had waited, for it to become a burden for her to bear, to feel ashamed that she had obeyed her husband in such a wilful act of deceit. It had never come. Relief; that was what she had felt. A wave of relief on knowing that, at least for now, her failure was still a secret, only shared by her and her husband.

Her husband sighed lightly, rising to his feet. "If you're in truly desperate need of me, I shall be in the library. Until that time, you're free to do whatever you wish. Explore, read – it's of little consequence to me."

She bowed her head, but she turned, her gaze following him as he made to leave.

"My lord…" He seemed to start at this, his fingers twitching against the door, and he stared at her, that same expression of study flickering across his features. She swallowed, words dissolving on her tongue until she was only able to gesture hopelessly towards the prepared table.

"I thought perhaps – you might want some breakfast."

"No." He shook his head, and it seemed clear that his answer had already been decided, long before she had spoken. Did he really loathe her all that much? He cleared his throat. "Good day."

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><p>The first time Molly had encountered a horse, she had been a little under five years of age. Her father's horse, it was an imposing creature, with a pure white coat, but an uneasy temperament. It whinnied and threw its head about, but when she had given out a cry and hurried behind her father, clutching at the hem of his cloak, her nurse had only laughed and picked her up, guiding her towards the horse. With soft words, she had urged Molly to lean forward and press her hand against the horse's snout, promising that no harm would ever come to her. The horse's eyes were dark, and its ears twitched as she, tiny as she was, tentatively obeyed, her anxious frown melting away into a smile when, underneath her touch, the horse had calmed. From that day on, Molly had grown ever fonder of riding, and so it was with a smile that she rode the long, winding path away from the castle and her husband, towards the landscape of the town.<p>

The marketplace was a place where the air was thick with the scent of smoke from the burning braziers, and where conversation filled the silence. Molly, easing her horse down to a walk, with sweet and acrid scents passing her, smiles or nods directed at her, made her way through the marketplace.

"Good mornin', milady." Such a call caused her to pull her horse to a stop, and she turned to see a young man, skinny in form and scruffy in appearance, fresh pig's blood staining his fingertips, heading down the dusty path. He didn't smile, but he gave a nod in greeting.

"Good morning," she replied, though her eyes traced over the young man's apron. Dirtied by mud, the shade of blood that he wiped so hurriedly upon it was starkly familiar. She tightened her grip on the reins of her horse. "What's your name?"

"Billy, milady. Billy Wiggins. Butcher's son."

She swallowed, tightening her grip on the reins. "And you do your service to Lord Holmes?"

Unblinking, he held her gaze. "I do as he wishes, yes."

That was all their conversation entailed, but it more than easily served as confirmation of what she already had suspected. Her secret was not simply between her and her husband. Turning her head away, she urged her horse into a trot and continued on. Before long, she was squeezing the sides of her horse and holding on even tighter as her mare galloped eagerly down the main path. She continued to ride until she had ventured away and out of the marketplace towards the outskirts of the town. There, it was quieter; the air was not tinged with smoke and conversation was scarce.

Coming up to the head of the path, she found herself facing a small stone building, a bell tower its most prominent feature. Dismounting from her horse, she approached. Inside the church was dark, with only one window through which the afternoon light danced. Through the dim light, she saw an altar. Stood at that altar was a figure, swathed in the robes of a friar, with his hands pressed together in the gesture of prayer. Silently, Molly sat herself at the back, lowering her head and letting her eyes flutter closed. If there was ever a day to pray, then this was it.

"Good day to you, young lady." She gasped, the sound echoing, and she looked up to see the friar still stood by the altar, but now facing her, his hood drawn away from his face. He was grey-haired, but there was a handsome youth in his aged features. He smiled warmly. "Greg Lestrade. Doubt I need to tell you that I'm the friar."

"Oh. Lady Molly Hoop—" She paused, and gave a smile. "Holmes."

"Ah. Well then – good day, milady." Lestrade stepped away from the altar, still with that same warm, gentle smile, and sat himself beside her. "I suppose you come to pray."

"You suppose correctly, friar."

"People often do around these parts. Either that or they come down to tell me what I'm doing wrong." Lestrade chuckled, looking to her. "So – what are you praying for?"

Usually, she would've had an answer for him. She would've told him how she often prayed for her soul, and for the souls of her loved ones, and how, in her prayers, she would wish upon them a blessed and contented life. Today though, she had no such answer. Today, she prayed for no-one but herself.

"I pray for many things," she answered finally, smoothing her fingers over her skirts. "What do you pray for, friar?"

"Like you – many things." The only difference between them being that he meant his answer. She swallowed a little.

"Friar?" He made a low, assenting noise at the back of his throat, but it did not serve as any kind of comfort. Head lowered, she bit at her bottom lip. "I believe – I need to ask a question."

She eyed him carefully, but he only remained impassive to her nerves. Somehow, that seemed to soothe her. She let out a shaky breath. "If you had to lie in order to save someone, from either physical harm or just – embarrassment, would that – would that still be regarded as a sin? Would it, in the eyes of God, be wrong?"

His warm smile returned and he shook his head, letting out a gentle sigh.

"I believe… I believe that if the end justifies the means, and the intentions of the lie were good, then God will forgive."

His words, though short and concise, seemed to lighten the weight she had put so heavily onto her shoulders, and she straightened up, giving the smallest of smiles. "Thank you, Friar. Your words are a great help."

"I always aim them to be. Your husband would disagree of course." Lestrade stood and moved back towards the altar, drawing his fingers against his chest in a cross and he began to light two large candles. "He's often held little patience for God's teachings – or mine, for a matter of fact."

"You know my husband then?"

Lestrade glanced at her, his warm smile still in place.

"Ever since I set foot inside this parish." He continued on with his work, lighting the candles along the walls of the church. "He was younger then – but definitely no less obstinate. I've tried many times to convince him to attend the church alongside his brother – but he's always held more interest in study and his library. I've never known him to show interest in anything else, except—"

Molly rose to her feet. That weight, she could feel it, pressing back down upon her. She stepped forward. "Except what?"

Lestrade paused in his work, considering her; but whatever he had to say, he clearly did not think her worthy enough to hear, for he only shook his head and attempted to turn away.

"Except what, Friar?" Molly pressed, to which Lestrade sighed, running his hand over his face as he turned back to face her. There was a pity in his eyes, a spark of sympathy that only ignited her curiosity.

"There – there was a woman – some years ago."

"A woman?" she echoed. "My husband has been married before?"

It was not uncommon, for a man to take a second wife if widowed. Lestrade's smile waned.

"No, milady."

Oh. "Did this woman have a name?"

"I confess milady, I never knew it. He only ever referred to her as 'The Woman'."

_The_ Woman. More questions hesitated on her tongue, flooding out as nothing but whispered stutters. Yet Lestrade, sympathy shining so clearly and obviously in his eyes, only cleared his throat and bowed his head, unwilling to say more. Maybe he couldn't. Perhaps that was the extent of his knowledge. The thought certainly lessened the sting of it. Swallowing thickly, she bid Lestrade a quiet goodbye, and let the chapel door slam behind her.

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><p>On returning to the castle, she found her husband in the library, quiet as he read, stood by the hearth. She did not announce herself as she moved forward, but even if she had, she doubted he would've registered her. His attention was seemingly consumed by the paper he held in his hand.<p>

"You should learn to announce yourself." She jumped at his words, her eyes flicking up to see his blue eyes staring straight at her. Blinking once, he looked back to the letter. Sharply, his pliable fingers ripped at the parchment and scattered the remains into the fire. Running his fingers through the curls of his hair, his footsteps echoed against the stone floor, the dogs loyally following on behind him as he made his swift departure.

She did not leave it a second before she ran towards the hearth, only to see nothing more than charred pieces of parchment. Her shoulders sank. Despondent, she made to leave the library in her husband's wake. It was a sound, a slight scratch against her skirts that caused her to stop and look down. There, just underneath her skirts, she saw the smallest scrap of parchment. Her eyes narrowed. If this had been any other occasion, she might have dismissed it as a piece of a puzzle she would never be able to put together. On this occasion, her eyes gleamed over the parchment she picked up and held between her fingers. She knew it was something she would be quite unable to forget. A signature, deftly written, but no name. Only two words: _The Woman._

She scrunched the parchment up between her fingers and threw it into the fire. Blankly, she watched, until it was nothing more than a scorched, hollow husk.

* * *

><p>It was evening before she was allowed the chance to speak to her husband. Washed, dressed and escorted into the bedchamber, she found him already in bed, sat up with his eyes trained on a book. If any trace of their earlier encounter had remained in his memory, it was not to be found in either his expression or his words, which merely consisted of a brief greeting and a nod of the head. Quietly dismissing her maid, Molly approached the bed and slipped inside, the new material of the bed sheets cold against her skin. Silently, she leaned away from her husband to blow out the candle light.<p>

"Are you unhappy?"

She stilled, and blinked, but did not look around. Her husband, this man who had been so far cold and unfeeling and perplexing to her, was asking her if she was unhappy?

"I can see it." His brow furrowed. "Is that how wives are meant to feel?"

She did not deign him with an answer. (How could she, when she didn't know the answer herself?) Behind her, she heard his sigh, and felt his body slide down next to hers.

"My lord—" She spoke in a whisper and swallowed, her fingers tracing against the material of the bed sheets. The Woman. Not the girl, not the friend, not the lover, not the wife. The _Woman._ Another piece of the puzzle. "Why did you marry me?"

"We will go out riding tomorrow," he said after a moment. "You'll know then."

It was an answer, at least. Silently, she blew out the candle.

* * *

><p>It became apparent to Molly that her husband had no idea or even inkling of her love for riding as soon as they stepped into the stables together. While it did create some offence to her for her husband to immediately assume that someone as small and fragile as her could never have rode before, she did, admittedly, find some secret amusement in watching the way in which he subtly reminded the stable lad to help her with the preparation of her horse, and found more amusement in the small frown that covered his features when she waved the stable boy away.<p>

"So, you ride then?"

She nodded as she prepared her horse. "Ever since I was a small girl."

"Hm." Her husband swung himself onto his saddle, looping his fingers around the reins of his horse, watching as she followed suit. With a small smile, she gently squeezed the sides of her horse and it trotted easily from the stables, her husband's horse falling into step with hers. Again, he was looking at her with that familiar look of study.

"Where are we going?"

"Straight up," he answered, pointing. "Towards the crest of the hill. Now, how about a race?"

"A race?" she echoed, blinking in wonderment. When she looked to him, his gaze was almost what she might've termed playful. What had caused this change, she did not know. The man she had encountered yesterday, so cold and distant, was so vastly at odds with the man now presented to her. Her husband's mouth flicked up with a smile.

"Yes. Would make the journey go by faster, don't you think?"

He didn't allow for an answer. Letting his smile loosen into a grin he tugged at his horse's reins and began to gallop forwards, his cloak billowing out behind him. His laugh, low, full-bodied and welcoming, sounded out over the air and it was a sound she knew she would never forget. Quickly, Molly urged her horse on and her laughter made her heart lift. She looked to her husband, and for the first time, he looked upon on her not as if she were a burden or a puzzle or a mystery. The knowledge was freeing.

Coming up to the crest of the hill however, her laughter faded away, and she brought her horse to a stop. Settled deep within the valley beyond, its high walls grey against the early morning, a castle stood. Coming to a stop beside her, her husband stared out into the valley and let out a disinterested sigh, fiddling a little with his reins.

"That castle belongs to my family. It has done for generations. I and my brother – we were raised there." He lowered his gaze. "A short time ago, a threat was made against it. Lord Moriarty – he was seeking to expand his family's lands. He was particularly eager to acquire the castle you see there."

"Why?"

Her husband shrugged. "Why not? My brother tried to pay him off, but, in the end, there was only one thing that could be done."

She looked away. The meaning of his words brought a stunning amount of clarity to her situation. "So you bound yourself to me – in front of God…"

And all for the sake of a castle. All her husband could apparently do was give one solitary shrug.

"Everyone has to make sacrifices," he remarked, and Molly felt her heart sink. She was nothing more than a convenience to him, he had made no qualms about the fact, and he dared to wonder why she was unhappy and quiet and still. The only comfort she could find was to think that her husband did not have the true knowledge of how deeply his words could hurt; but even that she could not truly believe.

"Some more than others," she murmured. Turning her horse, she made to ride away, back down the hill.

"We'll be living there." She glanced over her shoulder at him, and saw him mirroring her, staring at her, his expression as always unreadable and his thoughts unattainable. "In the summer months. Would you like me to ride back with you?"

Terming their marriage a sacrifice one minute, making polite offers of friendship the next. A contradictory man indeed. She shook her head.

"No, my lord. I would – prefer to be alone."

His eyes flickered with some unspoken, unknown emotion. "A wife should accompany her husband when he bids it."

"Well… everyone must make sacrifices, my lord."

He winced, perhaps with the realisation of just how cold and biting his words had been, but if he had a response or an answer, she did not stay to hear it. A castle. She was bound, tied to him for something that, now, was nothing more than an opulent cage. She doubted she would ever see it as anything else.

* * *

><p>She was already sat down, away from the feast, when she heard his footsteps. Yet she did not acknowledge him, not at first. Maybe her silence was what caused him, after he had settled down beside her, to speak.<p>

"A pleasant feast," he said. The attempt at conversation was stilted and almost laughable.

"I was told it was a tradition," she said and tucked her hair behind her ear, "to hold a feast in the town—"

"To celebrate the arrival of a new bride." He nodded once, rolling the goblet he held between his fingers. "Yes."

She doubted they would celebrate if they knew the reason behind their lord's marriage.

"My words—" He swallowed back the rest of his drink. His tone was sharp with its restraint. "I offended you."

It wasn't an apology. Nothing more than an observation.

She sighed, locking her fingers together as she looked out at the feast. "I'm your wife, my lord." Musicians, their faces lit up by the orange glow of the firelight, laughed with one another, preparing themselves for the dancing. She directed a smile towards her husband. "It's not in my duty to be offended, is it?"

He nodded. "But as a friend?"

She dropped her gaze, picking at the silvery brocade of her skirts, bronzed in this particular light. "Then I would say – yes – you did hurt me."

"Then I'm sorry."

She just about stopped herself from snapping her head up and staring at him as if he were some kind of wild beast. Instead she remained with her head bowed and her fingers picking at her skirts. Seemed then, that he was not a contradictory man after all. Complex, and often surprising, but not contradictory. She did not have enough restraint within her to stop her smile, the sensation of relief washing over her.

The slow, gentle lilt of a lullaby began. Her husband stood, and stepped towards her. A hand covered her shoulder, his thumb tracing against her collarbone and he bent down to kiss at her cheek. Her eyelids fluttered closed, the way in which he lingered against her skin (his mouth inches from her own) soon implanting itself into her memory. He straightened up, and held out his hand.

"Dance with me."

It was neither a command, nor an invitation, but it was an offer; and not one made in an attempt to ease the tension of a situation. It was one that was made between companions. She took it with silent grace and, as he placed his hand on her waist and they slowly turned with one another, letting the music guide their feet, it became clear to her. While they may not have been able to be husband and wife, they could be friends.


End file.
